Coming Home
by bondageluvr
Summary: Sherlock is forced to make a speech at John's wedding. How I see episode 2 turning out, anyway. One-sided Johnlock.


**Author's Notes: **so I wrote this _thing _because it wouldn't let me fall asleep. Spoilers for Episode 2 trailer, I suppose?

* * *

"Absolutely _not_!"

"I don't think he means you have a choice in the matter, Sherlo–,"

"You can't _honestly _expect me to make a speech at that _farce _of a wedding–,"

"Oi!"

"–no offence, John, – with all those _people_ and the _noise _and–,"

"That's _exactly _what I'm expecting, Sherlock."

"Well, I won't do it."

"Brother dear–,"

"You shut _up_, Mycroft, for once in your miserable life–,"

* * *

"I know the real reason why you're not keen on speaking at the wedding."

"I thought I told you to shut up."

* * *

"May I have your attention please? Now, a moment we've all been waiting for–,"

"–no doubt–,"

"–a speech from the Best Man himself. Mister Sherlock Holmes, Ladies and Gentlemen," Lestrade said with an air of merciless finality bordering on sadistic pleasure and took his seat as the self-proclaimed master of ceremonies, watching, together with the other hundred-plus people in the room, as Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world, genius and reluctant altruist, stood from John's right, his champagne glass – untouched, of course, – gripped tightly in a vice-like grip.

A moment of awkward silence followed, as the errant mass of great-aunts and former co-workers put down their utensils with a sigh of _"another toast?" _and raised their gazes to the man at the front of the room.

"Erm, right."

A snigger that sounded remarkably like Mycroft's cough-laugh hybrids travelled throughout the hall, landing teasingly onto Sherlock's tympanic membrane and spurring him into action.

"Well, I think we all know the reason why we're gathered here – obviously." Sherlock cleared his throat, refusing to look down at John and see the disappointment in his eyes. "Er, some of you I know quite well – most of you, actually, for example I know there are three former soldiers in this room, a failed accountant – horrible quarter, that, – and half a dozen distant relatives who are only here for the food–,"

He felt John's knee collide painfully with the tissue of his leg.

"…right." He nodded. "Besides the free food, we are also here to celebrate the union between Mary Morstan and John, my best friend and…" he drew a breath. "Perhaps the bravest man I have ever known to walk – well, _limp_, for a time, – this Earth."

"John and I met at Saint Bart's Hospital and parted ways there once as well." He could physically feel John wince at that. "Back in the day, he was a retired army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an alcoholic for a sister–,"

Another kick and a few disproving glances followed.

"–and I was… a high-functioning sociopath who refused to let anyone into his life. Somehow, though, my intuition that day managed to override my brain and instead of shutting the door, I opened it, for some bizarre reason, to John Watson… who inserted himself into my life perfectly and did more for me than, well… anyone, really…" Sherlock trailed off, momentarily fascinated by the ascending bubbles in his champagne glass.

"We solved crimes together, John and I, and we were – still are, on occasion, – better than any brainless buffoon from Scotland Yard–,"

That earned him a glare from Lestrade and an eye-roll from Anderson (whom he himself, although he'd never admit it, had secretly inserted into the guest list).

"–and I have to admit, those were the best days of my life."

Suddenly the room was still.

"When I was… When… After the… During my two-year absence from John's life… From our flat in Baker Street, a lot of things changed. I came back thinking they hadn't. _Wishfully _thinking. Although I knew, rationally, that I couldn't expect John Watson to wait for a dead friend to come back, I… _hoped _everything would be just the same."

"I was mistaken."

"When I came home to Baker Street, John Watson was no longer there. He was at a restaurant, trying to propose to Mary, who had become his rock after I single-handedly – and yes, I do have the audacity to flatter myself thus, – destroyed him. Mary rebuilt John Watson bit by bit. He's not perfect. But he was never supposed to be."

"When I came home to Baker Street, I flung myself into work, flooded the kitchen with my experiments and did everything to make it feel like home again."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed.

"Then I realised that… home was never Baker Street."

It seemed as though the whole room was holding its breath. Sherlock glanced up from his glass to look at tearful faces. So, so many people. He'd never realised. They never mattered. He turned towards the only person that did, mustering up the courage to finally look him in the eye.

"Home was where you were."

John's eyebrows furrowed for a split-second before his forehead smoothed out again as realisation clubbed him over the head with its iron fist.

"I suppose it's a bit too late to… say anything, but I am hoping you will forgive me this indulgence once, John."

"You said nothing would change between us a few weeks ago. And you were right. Nothing will change."

"Because you will still be my home, no matter where you are or who you're with."

"I wish you the best, John Watson."

"I wish you the best, Mary… Watson."

"I…"

"I have to go."

* * *

Sherlock could feel his heart beating wildly as he fled the scene, the sound of shattered glass echoing in his wake, along with whispers and murmurs of the people who'd just witnessed him break the fragile carcass of his ribcage and present the heart they'd thought he didn't have to the only person that mattered.


End file.
